


bench talks

by Gyre_and_Gimble, lacrimalis



Series: chasing ghosts [2]
Category: Markiplier Story World, Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, POV Second Person, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22095586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gyre_and_Gimble/pseuds/Gyre_and_Gimble, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacrimalis/pseuds/lacrimalis
Summary: Dark has hunted Marks across the multiverse for ages. He doesn't know how long it's been. Time isn't easy to keep track of when you're an extra-dimensional Eldritch horror with three discreet minds over which the skin of your enemy is stretched like an ill-fitting suit.His next target is Dr. Iplier, and he's determined to find the cracks in the man's genteel facade.
Relationships: Darkiplier (Markiplier Story World)/Doctor Iplier (Markiplier Story World)
Series: chasing ghosts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591345
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. first contact

Most times when you track down a different version of Mark, you find the man in California. Something about that is appropriate, you think. Mark always did like his fame and expensive living. He is frequently an influencer, his manipulative streak bearing out in the way he relies on his droves of followers to fill the void in his black heart.

But this version you're not entirely sure of. Celine's meditations have brought you to a hospital, within which Mark's presence burns as brightly as a beacon.

You sit on a bench across the street and wonder what Mark could be doing in a hospital. Maybe he's garnering public approval by visiting sick children, or perhaps his latest stunt for attention has landed him there with an injury.

You hope it is a painful one.

Though vengeance is slowly losing its luster for your three constituents, you do not know what else to do except hunt Mark across reality in all the insidious forms he may take. He has only grown easier to find the longer you have hunted his scent, but amidst the familiarity you've established with all Marks, you are losing the memory of _your_ Mark's distinctive presence. The first one. The one who hurt all of you, the one who _made_ you, and the one for whom this whole manhunt of yours began.

You had thought the first few were simply pretending not to recognize you – the same snake, having shed its skin and hissing sweet promises to the hawk who has come to devour it.

When you realized your mistake, you changed tack: perhaps these Marks were not _your_ Mark, but you might still find him by pursuing these, opposing these, and dispatching them – if only by process of elimination. What loss would it be to these worlds, after all, to pluck one snake from the undergrowth and remove it from the equation? Really, you deserve thanks for the multi-dimensional pest removal service you provide.

And how many Marks could there possibly be, you had thought.

You still don't know the answer to that question.

Now you are concerned that you've lost the plot entirely. You were born in vengeance, but you have lived a long time since then, and it requires a lot of energy to be angry for this long with so little gratification.

But it is all you know how to do.

And there is still much to be done.

"Sorry to bother you," a voice says. You could have sworn you masked your presence when you sat down, but perhaps you had lost focus. You have been losing focus, lately. You glare up at whoever it is, and are taken violently aback by the sight of Mark's face. "But are you okay? You seem…" And Mark's brow furrows, like he's trying to put words to the way the air shifts and darkens around you, but as if it is not a paranatural phenomenon.

Having _Mark,_ of all people, ask after your well-being is so hilariously infuriating that it makes you want to laugh until you gag on it. You snort humorlessly. "What is it to you?"

Mark's eyes begin to glaze over, like you've seen happen countless times when people try to look directly at you during one of your fits of emotion. Then Mark shakes it off, clarity returning to him quickly. It doesn't come as much of a surprise. He _is_ Mark, after all.

"Well, you see, I'm a doctor – Dr. Iplier, but please, call me Mark," he says, extending a hand for you to shake. You do not take it. He drops the olive branch and recovers with a bashful smile. Understanding. Kind.

You think that's an absolute _riot,_ and you let out a cruel little laugh. His embarrassed expression is a farce, you're sure. You wonder what depths of depravity a Mark with a medical license could reach. Maybe he locks people up in his basement – straps them to a table and cuts them open, or keeps them delirious and confused with a regimen of intravenous drugs. Pliant little playthings, just for him.

Same snake, different skin.

"I'd rather not," you say, after the silence has grown long enough to make the man uncomfortable.

"That's perfectly understandable," Dr. Iplier says with a friendly laugh.

"Understandable," you repeat, toying with the top of your cane. "What could you possibly understand?"

"Not much, with respect to you," the doctor admits. "But I'd like to, if you'll let me."

You turn toward Dr. Iplier. He's hovering by the bench with his hands in the pockets of his white coat. You look around. There is nothing here but the bench, a garbage can, and the two of you. "Why are you even over here? The hospital," you say, gesturing slowly toward the building in question as if he is a simpleton that will lose track of your arm if you move it too quickly. "... Is over _there._ "

"New hospital policy," Dr. Iplier says, removing his hands from his pockets – and you tense in preparation for him to draw out some kind of weapon, but his hands emerge holding a pack of cigarettes. "No smoking within thirty feet of the building. Personally, I disagree with it. It's hard enough for the non-ambulatory smoking patients to reach the courtyard. A few have already complained that it's an inconvenience to them."

"... And to the staff," you say pointedly.

Dr. Iplier smiles, charming and wry. "And to the staff," he agrees. He lifts his eyebrows and tilts his chin down in question, holding up the pack. When you don't bite, he asks verbally, "Do you smoke?"

"No," you say. You haven't yet picked up that particular vice, and it's never appealed to you before. Though Wil used to partake of an old pipe he filled with foreign, strange-smelling tobacco. The memory makes you feel nostalgic.

"Do you mind if I do?"

You sweep a hand out in careless invitation. "By all means." You honestly don't care either way. You care about so few things, these days.

Dr. Iplier thanks you needlessly and lights his cigarette. The smell is unfamiliar to you. All Marks tend toward certain things – they might share a similar cologne, or all mysteriously have the same favorite foods and games. But you've never smelled anything like the smoke rising from the doctor’s hand and curling around your shoulders. Perhaps the brand is unique to this world?

“Oh – sorry,” Dr. Iplier says, moving to stand downwind of you.

“... It’s fine,” you say. Cigarettes and pipe tobacco are different beasts entirely, but there are only so many ways burning plant matter can smell. You’re hardly going to let your guard down because of it, but being reminded of Wil puts you at ease.

“Do you mind if I sit?” Dr. Iplier asks.

“It’s free real estate,” you say, watching as he seats himself equidistant from you and the opposite end of the bench. Not avoidant, but not an imposition, either.

He certainly is being careful not to impose. There once was a time, at the beginning of your hunt for the multi-dimensional menace known as _Mark_ , when the smallest perceived slight would galvanize you into a murderous rage. Were you to have met this Dr. Iplier in those days, you would have been hard-pressed to find an offense upon whose grounds you might justfiably murder him.

Not that considerations like those had ever stopped you.

You realize that you are staring, but Dr. Iplier has borne your scrutiny patiently, pretending as if he doesn't notice. You dislike that you are getting the unavoidable impression of a calm, polite, and kind man, because you know better than anyone that it must be a mask. Simply one snakeskin of many, under which is a squirming, venomous wretch.

“I suppose I’m surprised to see a doctor smoking,” you say, not surprised. This is Mark, after all. Doubtless his perversity runs much deeper than the occasional hit of nicotine.

“Is it surprising?” Dr. Iplier asks, turning slightly toward you now that you’re addressing him. “A hospital is a really stressful environment.” He takes a drag, considerately blowing the smoke skyward so it doesn’t float into your face. “Medical school too, admittedly less so… but that’s where I picked it up.”

You realize what is troubling you about Dr. Iplier – apart from sharing the face and name of your loathsome enemy, that is.

Marks are, fundamentally, pathological liars and attention whores, and so most of them find their calling as professional actors. Those that have professions in markedly different fields tend to double down on it, as if by embodying a stereotypical lawyer, or baker, or accountant, or teacher, they can conceal their true nature in a role which they play their entire lives.

You have only just met the man, but you can tell that Dr. Iplier is not a stereotypical doctor. He is, in fact, a contradiction. “Even though you know the dangers better than anyone?” you challenge. You don’t actually care about the dangers of smoking – you’re a misanthropic extra-dimensional entity, so you doubt smoking could kill you, and if everyone else died of lung cancer you'd hardly take special notice.

But you’re curious to hear Dr. Iplier’s response.

“Sure I do,” he says. “Sometimes I worry I’m betraying my patients by setting a bad example. But I think people forget that doctors are human, too. If I have to spend eight hours in surgery and be on-call all day, I don’t get to drink a shot of whiskey and take a nap.” He takes a drag and holds up his cigarette demonstratively. “But nicotine helps me focus and stay awake. And on busy days, I’m not distracted by how hungry I am if I have to miss lunch.”

“... You believe the benefits surmount the ills of setting a bad example,” you surmise.

“Yeah, you get it,” Dr. Iplier says. You hum noncommittally. “I know it’s a bad look, and maybe eventually the hospital will crack down on it, but…”

You look the man up and down. His hands are absent of nicotine stains, pristine and clean, with closely-trimmed nails that you suspect are just as much a safety precaution as a grooming choice. The teeth which he tirelessly flashes in those friendly smiles of his are as white as his doctor’s coat.

“Oh, you don’t look bad,” you say with saccharine consolation. It’s a deliberate misinterpretation of his meaning, but it’s true, to an extent. You wouldn’t have guessed he smoked just by looking at him.

“What? Uh, I – thank you,” Dr. Iplier stutters. “I, uh, try to take care of myself – to compensate for the bad habit.”

Is he embarrassed by such a low-effort compliment? It’s second-nature to you to spot weaknesses in Marks, push their buttons and see what makes them tick, and it’s without even thinking about it that you push it further. “Well, it clearly pays off,” you say smoothly.

Dr. Iplier clears his throat, color rising in his cheeks. “That’s – very kind. Thank you.”

… And suddenly you are irritated. Pressing and poking at Marks is all well and good, but you are struck once more with the urge to laugh until you gag at his disgustingly farcical kindness. “Stop thanking me,” you tell him.

“You’ll have to stop saying nice things to me, first,” Dr. Iplier cajoles.

You pin him with a look. The grass around the bench curls and wilts, and the doctor drops his cigarette, looking stricken. The tension in the air couldn't be penetrated with an axe.

“Oops! Wouldn’t want to start a fire,” Dr. Iplier says, and he picks up his cigarette while you’re still boiling over with malice like it’s _nothing._ The grass is as dry as kindling, but his only acknowledgment of this drastic change is to tamp out the embers with the sole of his shiny dress shoe before he stands.

He walks impossibly through your impenetrable aura and deposits the cigarette butt in the square ashtray on top of the garbage can.

“Sorry, if I made it weird,” Dr. Iplier says as you look on incredulously. Your utter bafflement displaces your irritation, and the intensity in the air bleeds off into nothing. “Thanks for – oh, right, sorry. I appreciate… No…” Dr. Iplier trails off, like he can’t figure out how to end this conversation without expressing his gratitude. “Maybe I’ll see you around,” he settles on. “It was nice to meet you.”

You say nothing to this. You most certainly do _not_ want to see him around, and you are most certainly _not_ of the opinion that it was nice to meet him.

It never is, with Marks.

Dr. Iplier seems resigned to your silence, so he simply smiles and waves before making his way across the street.

You stare after his retreating back as he returns to the hospital, walking through one of the employee entrances and holding it open for a pair of departing nurses. You catch Dr. Iplier glancing back at you as he waits for the nurses to pass, and you frown.

He smiles and waves again.

You tighten your hand into a fist around your cane, and you will yourself away from this place.

This Mark _may_ be worth opposing, but you’ll have to root out his true motivations to know for sure. Usually that’s no object to accomplish, what with your supernatural perception and your ability to be anywhere and anywhen you want – but Celine is tired after using her powers to find another Mark in the labyrinth of the multiverse. You've all been getting tired more quickly, lately.

So you _could_ go to the trouble of sleuthing out Dr. Iplier's whole deal.

But isn't it convenient that he's so _eager_ to tell you himself?

Marks are careless, over-confident. One of the main pillars in the personality this Mark has constructed for himself appears to be a performative concern for the well-being of others. And during his misguided performance, he'll be focused on you. He's sure to slip up.

And, well, then you suppose you'll kill him, which you were already planning to do. But you've come to realize the importance of learning each Mark's secrets, dreams, and fears.

After all, without that crucial knowledge, you could never hope to give them the excruciating end they all rightfully deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dark: really, I deserve thanks for the multi-dimensional pest removal service I provide.  
> dr. iplier: thank you(3x)  
> dark:  
> dark: how about you get the FUCK away from me??????


	2. discomfort

There is still so much to be done.

We care about so few things, these days.

We have been losing focus, lately.

Have we lost the plot?

How many Marks can there be?

This is all we know how to do.

Your voices lap against each other like competing ripples atop an otherwise placid lake. You have been retreating into what you think of as sleep for what you know are steadily-increasing lengths of time, letting your consciousness relax into a mostly-peaceful semi-oblivion. It’s quieter and less painful here; traveling across time and space has rewarded you not only with the nearly-complete frustration of your goal, but with chronic pain each time you return to a given dimension’s light of day. Damien suggests that this might be a side-effect of dimension hopping, resistance on the part of the vessel in which you, he and Celine are traveling.

Celine is silent on the issue. She is silent a lot, these days. Each attempt to track down the Marks of the multiverse takes more out of her, drains more of her power and energy. Despite her best efforts to shield you and her brother from it, her fatigue is regrettably contagious.

Here, in the unreality of the void, you lack a physical form. The shell into which you, Celine and Damien were long ago remanded affords you the opportunity to explore a shape you never thought you would take, in the physical world. By the same token, it sags and stretches over you like an ill-fitting suit, a thing inside of which you were never meant to fit and that could never truly account for you as you are. What’s more, two complete human souls are trapped in here with you. It feels awfully crowded, sometimes.

Which is one reason why you feel so much more comfortable here, in the infinite and peaceful darkness. Here, you can be yourself: you give them a home, someplace they can be warm and feel safe. This is your purpose. This is what you know how to do, what you’re good at. You hush the crackling of the fire so as not to disturb Celine, who lies in one of the two beds in the one-room cabin. That they should choose this place as their safe haven puzzles you somewhat. If you understand their memories correctly, hadn’t this been a desperate attempt on the part of Celine to prevent Damien’s succumbing to Mark’s influence? She had nearly killed herself with the effort of maintaining the barrier she erected against the forces of time and death themselves. Why would she or Damien choose this?

It is fruitless to speculate, you know, and continued thought along these lines will ultimately become known to your fellows. You decide against pursuing it further.

Even though your thoughts can be and often are almost instantly transferred between the three of you, Damien sometimes insists on speaking aloud. “All I’m saying is, maybe we should try to refocus. We’ve been at this for…”

He trails off. The sentence does not require completion. The vagaries of time and space are largely lost on you, being that they mean virtually nothing when traveling between dimensions and hopping through timelines – but in place of those concerns lies the terrible weight of a struggle that seems endless. It may very well be so. Unable to take any sort of meaningful measurement, who’s to say you three haven’t already spent an eternity at your work?

You sense the encroachment of anxiety dimming your corners, frosting over your window panes. You induce a log in the fireplace to crack in a way that appears natural, sending forth a shower of harmless sparks and producing a snap that punctuates the silence. The anxious chill isn’t gone, but you are at least holding it at bay.

Celine’s words come to you both in a dispirited tone of thought. “You know as well as I do, little brother, that ‘refocus’ here means ‘to quit,’ which is not an option.”

Damien sighs and pokes at the fire. Aloud, he says, “I’m not suggesting that we quit, Celine, I just…” He looks over his shoulder at her. “You’re so tired, all the time now, and I don’t –”

“Don’t you dare try to make this about me.” Celine’s thoughts rise in pitch and gain an edge as she lies motionless, facing the wall. “I’m _fine_.”

Damien casts the poker aside, turning his body halfway around. You attend to the fire and the light it is casting, doing your utmost to keep yourself as comforting and calming as possible.

It doesn’t appear to be working.

“You are obviously _not_ fine, Celine,” Damien insists. “You’re doing it all over again – down to the very cabin we stayed in. I don’t understand why you won’t let us help you.”

Celine manages to think an audible sigh. “Don’t do this, Damien. I don’t have the energy to fight you right now.”

“Why does it have to be a fight?”

You try to relieve some of the tension in the room by siphoning it off or putting it somewhere else, but your walls are too close together to afford you any suitable hiding place for it. Remembering happier times – pleasant evenings in the manor, late nights with friends, sweet reunions and raucous celebrations – is sometimes enough to displace the animosity the two share like a birthmark. Not this time.

Celine’s thoughts are terse. “It wouldn’t have to _be_ a fight if you could just leave well enough alone.”

“What about this is ‘well enough,’ Celine?” Damien demands, leaning back on one of his hands. “I don’t consider any situation in which you’re doing something that’s killing you to be ‘well enough’.”

“Well, then we will just have to agree to disagree.”

Damien makes a disgusted noise and rakes his hands through his hair. You try to think of something, anything, that you can do to help the situation, but you lack a body, and your words aren’t really words as much as they are feelings, and there are already an awful lot of those in here.

Damien’s shoulders fall, and his tone softens. “Isn’t it time? Haven’t we done enough?”

Celine startles you both by sitting up in bed, whipping off the thin blanket that was covering her, setting Damien with a look that turns him pale, and yelling, out loud:

_“It’s enough when I say it’s enough!”_

You weren’t aware that the cabin had metal pipes in one of its walls until Celine’s voice set them ringing, their atoms scraping and chittering against one another to produce a thoroughly painful sensation in what feels like your abdomen. Your fire gutters sporadically, logs crumbling to embers and coals. Damien is holding his head as the gust of angry energy whips around him and inside of you. Your floor creaks; the stones of your hearth clench and rattle; and a terrible, crushing pain is paradoxically pulling you apart at the seams.

You are so surprised by this outburst that, while powerful enough in your own right, all you can do is metaphorically flutter your hands in indecision. Celine has been admirably ruthless ever since the three of you took refuge in Mark's broken body, but she has never turned that ruthlessness inward toward you and Damien. Toward herself.

It reminds you of the way Mark mistreated you, that miserable decade during which he lived inside you like a parasite, and the urge to retaliate in self-defense is quick and instinctive - but you falter.

Wilf… William, the first and greatest joy of your life, pined after this woman for years. His aching heart had shared its pain with you. Sympathetic. Symbiotic. It hurts you now to think of how Celine’s single-minded pursuit of exacting vengeance upon Mark has changed her, embittered her, such that she now bears little resemblance to the inquisitive, thoughtful, gracious woman you once cradled within your rooms and halls.

As you grapple with the dual instincts to defend yourself and to respect your absent William's wishes, Celine falls back onto the mattress, and the evidence of her power begins to ebb away. The stones of your hearth unclench and your fire crackles tremulously, reintroducing warm light to the cabin as the strain on your boards and beams subsides. You allow yourself a sigh of relief through the fireplace, gently blowing air back into the cabin that now seems cold.

Celine is trying to sit up, putting weight on an elbow that refuses to hold her. She gives up after a few failed attempts, laying back and breathing heavily. Damien, once composed, is stumbling to her side, hands hovering, unsure, over his sister’s body. Celine tries to wave him away, but only manages a feeble twitch of her fingers and a harsh, pained noise. Kneeling, Damien takes her hand.

“We can’t keep this up,” he says. “I can’t lose you, Celine - I need you. _We_ need you.”

You feel his knees shaking against your floorboards; you suggest to the wood beneath them that it should soften and bend, easing Damien’s inevitable discomfort.

“Celine, please – listen to me once, just this once, okay? I’m not doubting your abilities, here. Without you, none of this,” he gestures vaguely to himself and his surroundings, “would be possible. You are the only reason that I and –”

He gestures to you again. You send forth an impression of self-acknowledgement.

“– our friend, are here at all.”

Celine’s eyes are shut tight and you can tell that she is working hard to regulate her breathing. You do what you can to shift the humidity and clear the dust from the air around her.

“We would never have made it this far hunting Mark without you… But I think constantly searching for new Marks, keeping tabs on all of them, is putting a strain on us, and we don’t have a lot of energy to spare.”

A few of the muscles in Celine’s neck grow taut and her lips are pressed together in a painful grimace that keeps her silent. Damien is right: if Celine cannot even muster the strength to argue, it bodes ill for the energy reserves which the three of you share.

The Celine who struggles to sit upright is a far cry from the vision of righteous fury she made when the hunt began so long ago: her aura whipping away from her as if blown by a fierce wind, arms outstretched, at the root of the infinitely-branching tree of realities. She was haloed in light the color of an open wound, which pooled at her feet and began to snake out in long, red tendrils of psychic energy, sifting through universes for your quarry. She found countless Marks this way, and you and Damien grinned as you rolled up your proverbial sleeves and followed her lead.

Celine's mind, attuned as it was in life to the uncanny and the occult, is your greatest weapon in the fight against Mark. You may be an occult entity by nature, but you have always struggled to hone and focus your energy with any sort of precision; with Celine, you are granted that focus and precision.

And though Damien does not have much psychic energy to offer, he contributes in his own way: he is most comfortable when occupying a physical form, and while sometimes it feels that you and Celine might float away for some psychic purpose (which is not an uncommon occurrence), it is Damien who keeps you both grounded. His physicality translates to an awareness of his surroundings, an ease with movement and corporeal Being that you have never known, and which Celine is slowly losing touch with. Damien brings you both balance.

And now that Celine is no longer hiding things from him, he is her confidante, supporting her and contributing his thoughts and opinions to the problems that arise naturally from her single-mindedness.

You have been functionally sublimated and of a single mind and purpose for a long time, your mind disjointed and angry but mostly harmonious. But your successes have soured and begun to taste more like failures the longer the original Mark evades your grasp. This disheartening realization has put a drain on the psychic pool of rage from which you've all been drawing your strength. You cannot go on as you have been, chomping at the bit and sniffing out new Marks endlessly like ghostly bloodhounds. Not without resting or burning out.

And now, Celine and Damien are arguing just like they used to. They are tired and dissatisfied and quick to anger. Your internal state is naturally having an effect on you as well, but your natural state of being is also more edifice than animal, and though you are frustrated with your companions' behavior it is easier to stand still and do as you have always done than lash out in anger.

But you begin to feel tempted. They are being quite foolish, and maybe a few rows of teeth on the windowsill would give them something else to worry about.

Perhaps by virtue of being _all_ psychic, you suspect you can see the crux of their disagreement more easily than they can. Humans have a strange habit of arguing about something while hiding their true feelings on the matter, talking in circles, orbiting around their true motivations but never quite touching them. Even though the three of you share a mind,  
Celine and Damien are instinctively hiding their feelings from each other.

You’ve tried to stay out of it, instead focusing on making yourself more comfortable and inviting. But you’ve become frustrated with their squabbling. You wonder why they don’t just listen to each other.

“They’re right, you know,” Damien says to Celine.

Celine scoffs. “What, that we just need to ‘listen to each other’?”

You take offense and don’t bother suppressing the irritated creak in your rafters.

Damien holds one of Celine’s hands in both of his own. “Please don’t shut us out,” he continues. “I told you I want to help, and I do. But I can’t do that if you won’t let me in.”

He sounds tired; you surreptitiously fluff his pillow and direct more of your fire’s warmth to the sheets on the unoccupied bed.

Damien goes on: “Believe me when I say that I know you have more reasons to hate Mark than anyone else – I get it. But we can’t find him and make him pay if the one person strong enough to get around in the multiverse keels over on us. You have to rest.”

Yes, rest, you agree.

Celine looks as though she’d like to resist; you can almost taste the biting comment poised behind her teeth, but Damien is insistent. “Let us help you,” he pleads.

A hiss of pain passes through Celine’s teeth. “We are _not_ giving up,” she bites out.

“I know, I know,” Damien hurries. “That’s not what I want - what either of us wants.”

There is a gust of wind outside that helps you produce an assenting clatter with the tiles of your roof.

Damien sighs. “The fact of the matter is that we need to slow down.” The fog of his thoughts thins somewhat as a half-smile appears on his face. “What’s the saying? A bird in the hand is worth-”

“Two in the bush,” Celine grumbles, “I know.”

Damien laughs weakly. “We wouldn’t want the bird we have in hand to fly away while we’re looking for the next one, right?”

Pain is gradually draining out of Celine, replaced with the security of knowing one’s purpose. She is most calm when contemplating the means by which Mark will meet his end.

You can't say you don't relate.

By the time Damien crawls into bed, a tenuous peace prevailing, you fall back into what you know best. You warm Celine’s feet and keep air circulating around Damien so that he doesn’t get too hot while he sleeps; you dim the light of your fire and keep the coals burning as long as you can. The winter around you may only be superficial, but you are made gladdened that you are able to warm your fellows anyway.


End file.
